J. Jance - Rattlesnake Crossing

"He never," Belle said flatly. "Clyde never would of done that, not less'n he got a whole lot sicker than he was already."

"You knew he was sick, then?" Joanna asked.

Belle shrugged. "I guess."

"With what?"

"Who knows? All I know is, the last few months he was always tired. Just dragging. Like he could barely stand to put one foot in front of another. Losing weight no matter how much food I stuffed into him. But Clyde wasn't one to go to doctors much. Didn't believe in 'em."

Joanna stared. Dr. Daly had taken one look at Clyde Philips' body and suspected that the man was suffering from AIDS. If Clyde didn't go to doctors, was it possible that he himself hadn't known what was wrong with him? Or was his former wife the one who didn't know?

"So as far as you know, Clyde didn't have a personal physician?"

"If he did, he never told me. And what's the point? Even if he was sick when he died, once he's dead, can't see how it matters."

It matters, all right, Joanna thought, to anyone else who's ever been with the man. It matters to you. She said, "So after you moved out, Ms. Philips, did you maintain any kind of relationship with your former husband?"

"I cooked for him," Belle admitted. "Did his wash. Cleaned for him when the house got so filthy that I couldn't stand to see it. He paid me for it, too, for doing all those things, but I probably would of kept right on doin' even if he hadn't had no money to pay me."

"But you and he weren't… well… intimate."

Belle's laugh was hollow. "We weren't hardly ever what you call intimate when we was married, so why would we be after we was divorced? He told me real early on that I wasn't his type. That I wasn't no good in the bedroom department. So I put as good a face on things as I could and acted like we was just like any other normal married couple. You know, complainin' about it sometimes the way women do, about their husband all the time wantin' 'em to come across. That kind of thing. 'Cept in our family, it was me all the time doin' the wantin' and him sayin' he had a headache."

And that's probably a good thing for you, Joanna thought.

For a few minutes the television set droned on overhead while Joanna considered her next question. "Pomerene's a small town," she said finally. "It's the kind of place where people know things even though they may not necessarily want to. So do you have any idea who any of Clyde's partners were after you left?"

For the first time, Belle Philips' eyes strayed from the flickering television screen. "Sex partners you mean? I can't rightly say I do. And even if I did, I don't know that 1'd say. Since Clyde's dead, what people say about him now really don't matter. But I draw the line at spreadin' gossip about the livin'. Gossipin' ain't my style."

"What made you divorce him, then? Did you leave be-cause he was getting sick?"

Belle sighed. "Clyde was sick a long time before I divorced him, and not with nothin' catchin', neither. I just always kept thinkin' I could make him better. 'Fix him, like. They're all the unit tellin' folks that at church, sayin' that the unbelievin' spouse can be saved by the believin' one if'n they just pray hard enough. 1 prayed. Lord knows, 1 prayed for years, but it wasn't never enough."

"What do you mean he was sick then?"

"Sheriff Brady, the man is dead. Can't we just let sleepin' dogs lie?"

"No, we can't, Belle," Joanna returned. "You just told me yourself that you don't believe Clyde committed suicide. If that's the case, then he was murdered. Somebody else did it-some unidentified person put that bag over his head and closed it up tight. In order to find out who that person is, we need to know everything we can about Clyde himself. Everything. Good and bad."

"But he's already dead," Belle objected stubbornly. "What does it matter?"

Joanna took a deep breath. Maybe Dr. Daly was right and Clyde Philips had committed suicide. Even so, someone who knew him-someone who might have discovered the body before Belle had-could have stolen the guns. And Joanna was convinced that person with the guns was responsible for what had happened at the Triple C. One way or the other, Sheriff Brady needed Belle Philips' cooperation.

"It's not just Clyde," Joanna said. "It could be that other people are in danger as well. Someone wiped out Clyde's gun shop."

"Wiped it out? What does that mean?"

"I mean all of Clyde's guns are gone, Belle. A whole shop full of guns is empty. And all the paperwork that went along with them is missing. If Clyde didn't sell those guns, then someone stole them-probably the same person who killed him. Not only that, there's a very good chance that one of those weapons was used to murder someone up on the Triple C night before last."

"Someone else? Who?"

"A lady from Rattlesnake Crossing. Her name's Katrina Berridge. So far, we have possible links from that case to two others, not even counting what happened to Clyde. His death would make it four. We have to find out who's doing this, Belle. Find him and stop him. Whatever you can tell us about Clyde may help lead us to the person or persons responsible."

Again there was a long silence. "Boys," Belle said at last.

"Boys?" Joanna echoed.

Belle nodded sadly. "Clyde liked boys. If he had been messing around with other women, maybe I could of handled it. But boys was somethin' else. It just beat all."

"You're saying Clyde Philips was a pedophile?"

"That's a pretty highfalutin-soundin' word, Sheriff Brady. I don't know exactly what it means, but if it means someone who likes to screw boys instead of women, then that's right. Clyde was one of them. I didn't catch on to it for a long time. I s'pose you think I'm just stupid or some-thin'. And maybe I am. I thought he just liked havin' all those young folks around on account of us not havin' any kids of our own. And then when I finally did figure it out, my pastor kept telling me to love the sinner and hate the sin. So that's what I did. For as long as I could stand it. But he kept goin' up to Phoenix and hangin' out with them boy prostitutes. Finally I just gave up. Gave up and got out, especially seein’ as how I'd come into a little bit of money to help me get set up on my own."

Belle lapsed into silence once more, and Joanna had the good sense to realize that her questions were plumbing the depths of an open wound. "Do you know any of their names?" she asked.

Belle blinked. "Only one," she said.

"Who's that?"

"Talk to Ruben Ramos," Belle replied.

"Ruben Ramos? You mean Chief Ramos over in Benson? You're saying the Benson police chief is one of Clyde's friends?"

Belle shot her head slightly. "The chief's son. Ask him about his son. Ask him about Frankie."

That was what Joanna had come to Belle's room looking for-a single name that would put her inside Clyde Philips' circle of intimates. Now that Joanna had one, she rose to go.

"Before you take off, Sheriff Brady, tell me what I'm s'posed to do."

"About what?"

"About a funeral. I ain't Clyde's wife no more, but there ain't nobody left but me to plan a service. That's pretty hard to do with me lyin' here flat on my back."

"The body's been transported to the morgue here in Tucson," Joanna told her. "It's over at the Pima County Medical Examiner's office. Dr. Fran Daly is the investigator who'll be doing the autopsy. When that's done, she can release the remains to whatever funeral home you choose. You'll have to let her know which one."

"I ain't worried about no funeral home," Belle said. "It's what comes later's got me spooked."

"Later? What do you mean?" Joanna asked.

"The funeral part is what bothers me. What do I do? Go ahead and have a regular one in church with a casket and all that? Or what?"

"That's up to you, of course. You said something earlier about your pastor. Ask him. I'm sure he'll be happy to ad-vise you, and he could probably conduct an appropriate service for you as well."